Spending a weekend with her hot papa
With the untimely passing of the extraordinary Tim Russert on Fatherās Day weekend, I did what many others have been doing in the days since -- I have been reading voraciously about him, his life and his family. Not coincidentally, it was his relationship with his father that has had me most enthralled.
My own dad came to stay with me for Fatherās Day weekend. I donāt think I have spent 72 hours alone with my father in my entire life. My parents split up when I was 4, and being one of five children, solo bonding time throughout the years was slim to none. But his mind was made up; the weekend was to be spent with his only uncoupled child. As he put it, it was āmy turn.ā
As the Date With Dad inched closer, I found myself getting extremely nervous. What would we possibly talk about for three whole days? Would I need to entertain him every minute? Why does he want to stay with me when my place is smaller than everyone elseās? Then it hit me -- Iām the kid with no kids!
I picked him up in āThe Grand-Car.ā Thatās right, my father named my new convertible after the grandchild I have yet to give him. Thanks. The new wheels provided us 35 milesā worth of conversation. I guess she really is a āgrandā car after all. So what do we talk about now?
Truth be told, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and the weekend ahead didnāt seem so daunting. I was about to heave a big sigh of relief, but then we arrived at my apartment.
As I mentioned, my place is somewhat tiny compared with my siblingsā homes. I live in a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. Sleeping on the couch is no big deal, I do it all the time, but I canāt quite get used to my 69-year-old father walking around in his towel -- or worse -- his underwear. Another thing that I discovered is that, not unlike myself (and everyone else on the planet), my dad is addicted to the computer. Not a problem, except for some reason he didnāt bring his. And every time he reached for my TiVo remote, I could swear my heart stopped for just a moment. I knew I had to get him out of the house, and fast. So I took him to my gym. Well, first I made him change out of his skimpy cycling shorts (seriously, Dad?).
My father is not your typical almost-septuagenarian. For one thing, heās hot. I mean, the man is a chick magnet. Heās got more game than I could ever hope for. In addition to his deep tan and mouth of gleaming white choppers, my dad now wears a diamond stud in his ear. Definitely not something that I am attracted to, but thankfully Iām his daughter so I donāt have to like it. Scores of women, on the other hand, totally dig it. It would seem that Mr. Harrison Ford has the right idea after all.
I didnāt quite get the gist of his hotness until I brought him to the gym with me. If I told you that heads turned, I wouldnāt be exaggerating a bit. One woman almost tripped over an elliptical machine rubber-necking as she passed by. And she was my age. It was all I could do not to shout, āHeās old! And heās my dad!ā
The remainder of the weekend went surprisingly well. No, he didnāt take me on a father-daughter shopping spree, and he didnāt surprise me with a fat check on my coffee table āin case of emergency,ā but he did give me something that I had never gotten from him before, not from him or any other man Iāve tried to woo -- a genuinely sincere, heart-felt compliment.
What he said was, āYou know, Cindy, I really like your life.ā
You know what, Dad? So do I.
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